Mourning Glory
by parttimeficwriter
Summary: Small one shot set after S8 finale. House/Cameron.
1. Chapter 1

**I'm not really sure about this one. Just a small idea that wouldn't leave me alone but, now that it's written, I think it was better when it was in my head. If that makes sense to anyone! Your thoughts on it would be appreciated as long as they are constructive.  
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**Also I couldn't decide exactly how old Cameron is or how long her husband has been dead so I made an educated guess. If it's wrong let me know and I'll edit it. Thanks.**

**Edit: I forgot to say that I'm going with athousandsmiles' idea that Cameron is single and that it was her brother and nephew we saw her with at the end of S8.  
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_Grief sucks_ thinks Allison Cameron as her feet pound the sidewalk in a monotonous pattern. She's tired of it, tired of re-living every moment they shared together in her head; tired of pretending that everything is fine when there is a gaping hole in her heart. She has been truly in love with two men in her relatively short life and has buried them both. They say time heals all wounds but she knows what a load of crap it is. It's been fifteen years since her husband died and still she feels the loss every day. Still thinks about him and pictures him in her mind; still loves him. And now there are two dead men haunting her; lodged firmly in her mind and her heart. It's been six months since House's funeral and already she knows that she will never get over it. Never get over _him_. The truth is she never has been able to, no matter how hard she tried.

She sighs heavily and is relieved when she looks up to find her building looming in front of her. She pushes through the door into the harsh light of the foyer, feeling every one of her thirty six years as a bone weary tiredness sweeps through her body. Grief not only sucks; it's exhausting too. She stops briefly to collect her mail, scooping up a small pile of envelopes, before making a beeline for the elevator. She feels a slight pang of guilt at not taking the stairs as per her usual habit but brushes it off quickly and promises herself that she will go for a run tomorrow before work. Her hands idly flip through the small stack of mail, which is almost exclusively made up of bills, until she reaches a small padded envelope with her name scrawled across the front in a familiar script. The doors open on the third floor as her heart seems to stop for a long moment before returning with a pounding vengeance. Her hands, usually so steady, begin to tremble and she can taste the bitter tang of adrenaline on her tongue. She knows that handwriting; knows it belongs to a man who's been dead and buried for the last six months. Her fingers trace over the letters of her name with a quiet reverence and she swallows hard against the lump that has formed unbidden in her throat. She wonders why it has taken so long for his lawyer to forward a simple letter to her but that thought comes to a screeching halt when she realises that there is no-post mark on the front. It has been hand delivered. _Oh, she's most definitely not tired any more._

In her turmoil she realises the elevator doors have opened and then closed on her again. She fumbles with the button panel on the wall until the doors spring open again and she can make a run for her apartment. She finds her keys, drops them twice before opening the door, all the while staring at the envelope clutched in her hand. The door slams behind her and she leans her back against it, needing the support the cool wood offers her jelly-like legs. The other letters have fallen to the floor, irrelevant to her now. His letter commands her full attention; just like he always did. She reminds herself to breathe and sucks air in to her lungs greedily before reaching out her free hand and flipping on the hall light. She's all fingers and thumbs as she prises the envelope open, fine motor skills lost in a wash of emotion that threatens to overwhelm her fully at any moment. Finally, after what seems like an eternity, she is dragging the contents out into the light. A brightly coloured, laminated flyer on a lanyard announces that she is holding an all access pass to tonight's Monster Truck Rally whilst the note her gift was wrapped around echoes a question she was asked a long time ago: "_Do you like Monster Trucks_?"

She presses a hand to her heart, feeling the beat beneath her palm, reassuring herself that she is most assuredly alive and well. Apparently, so is he. Warmth radiates through her as she throws her head back and laughs triumphantly.

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**Thanks for reading.  
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	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed this story. Some kind/crazy people asked for a second chapter and I can only apologise at the delay in getting it written. Hopefully it won't disappoint. I'd love to hear your comments. It hasn't been beta'd I have literally typed it and posted it so apologies in advance for any mistakes.**

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There are butterflies in her stomach as she wends her way through the excited crowds and she can't help smiling to herself as her mind replays the first, and last, time she attended a monster truck rally. It's almost exactly as she remembers it. The smell of gasoline in the air mingled with the scent of French fries and the sweet tang of cotton candy. She feels closer to him just by being here and then laughs at herself when she imagines his response to such a thought. Her eyes scan the crowds, searching for a glimpse of him, watching for that familiar face with the devastating blue eyes and sardonic grin.

By the time she reaches her seat the disappointment is starting to set in; along with the doubts she hadn't allowed to cloud her thoughts previously. What if it's not real? What if it's all some form of sick joke? What if… and then the air around her changes and she feels the seat beside her shift as a warm and familiar masculine smell washes over her. He's here.

She turns and looks at him. Sees the same ruggedly handsome face that she loves looking back at her, sexy smirk and trademark stubble still firmly in place. His long legs are splayed out casually in front of him as he leans back in the chair with an air of arrogance that she has sorely missed but one look at his eyes tells her that he is hurting. She can see the same pain in his that has been in hers since he 'died' and she knows now that Wilson is dead and that House was there with him. It's the most selfless thing she's ever known him to do and whilst she has been hurting without him she comes to realise how much he loved Wilson. His best friend. His only friend.

"Miss me?" It's more of a demand for knowledge than an actual question and it finally sinks in that this is real. He is real and he's right next to her. She can hardly breathe let alone speak as her emotions bubble over and tears spill silently down her cheeks. She bites her lip to try and stop the sob trying to escape her throat and finds herself able to do little more than nod wordlessly.

She sucks in a sharp breath as he reaches out and gently swipes her tears away. "I'm sorry," he says softly, holding her gaze, "I never meant to hurt you."

"I know you didn't," she whispers, finding her voice again as she gazes at him. "You were with him?"

He nods once. "Til the end."

"You did the right thing," she tells him. She believes it too. Oh, she knows he went about it all wrong, and most likely if he hadn't behaved so much like himself there would have been no need for such cloak and dagger antics but she can't help thinking that he did the right thing. Wilson died and he was there. She doubts he held his hand or made his last moments peaceful but he was there for him despite the tremendous personal cost to himself.

"That's my girl," he says, approvingly. There is a hint of possessiveness mixed with his teasing tone and it makes her heart beat faster.

She lets out a sound which is a half sob, half laugh. This man, this impossible man, never ceases to surprise her. Only he could get away with this. She imagines that she is probably the only one who would forgive him for it.

"Always have been," she confirms, not caring how pathetic that probably makes her sound.

"I know," he says, wistfully, and she can hear the regret in his tone. A regretful House is not something she is used to but it pleases her to know that he regrets their missed opportunities as much as she does. She decides, then and there, that there will be no more regrets for either of them. She reaches for him and seconds later she feels the warmth of his lips pressed against hers.

"I love monster trucks," she sighs happily as their foreheads rest against one another, panted breaths mingling together.

He laughs softly. "Gravedigger never disappoints."

She smiles at the shared memory.

"What happens now?" she whispers, unable to stop the words from forming. She winces and wonders at her need to push him. She expects nothing less than a sarcastic deflection and is surprised when he looks at her seriously and mutters "That's up to you."

"Meaning?"

"I have a lot to tell you. Where I've been, where I'm going, who I am..." he tells her, quietly, confident that the noisy crowd around them are not paying any attention to them, "if, after all that, you still want me then..."

"Then what," she prompts.

"I'm all yours. For as long as you'll have me.

She knows now, without a shadow of doubt, that she will follow him wherever he has to go. She's spent the last six months grieving for him, there's no way she's letting him go.

"How does forever sound?"

"Lame," he says, smiling widely, and she knows him well enough to read between the lines, "but I think you like lame."

"I do," she says, easily, as she pulls him in for another kiss "I _love_ lame."


End file.
